Impropriety
by Dana Holmes
Summary: It was supposed to be a boring evening at a formal party, but there is only so much that a future Dark Lord can let go. Pain, pleasure, and wine lead to an interesting evening. Tom M. Riddle/Lestrange Sr. slash.


**Title: Impropriety**

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Author: Dragon_of_Venus

Pairing: Tom Marvolo Riddle/Lestrange Sr.

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 8,000 words exactly.

Master List: This is only a one-part story (though I am planning some _almost_ sequels) but here it is.

Summary: It was supposed to be a boring evening at a formal party, but there is only so much that a future Dark Lord can let go. Pain, pleasure, and wine lead to an interesting evening.

Warnings: Dub-con, sadism, blood play, alcohol, power-play, hand-jobs, foul language, and eighteen-year-old men engaging in acts that were highly illegal during the time period in question.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related characters, settings, or plots. I make no money from the writing of this piece or any other piece based off of J.K. Rowling's ideas.

**Author's Notes: Yes, I did name Lestrange after Voltaire. There was a reason for that, and I'll be happy to explain if you mention in a comment/review that you'd like to know. As for the fic itself; It's quite a bit longer than my fics usually are, but I really enjoyed writing this one. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading it, but I won't cry if you skip to the porn. Con-crit is welcomed, including so-called 'nit-picky' things like "You misspelled '___________.'" and "The British term for ______ is actually ______!" All I ask is that you quote the sentences those mistakes are in, so that I can find them easily to correct them. Also, this had to be reformatted for ffn, so if you see any obvious formatting errors (It all looks fine to me, but Merlin knows I'm capable of missing things) please point it out. **

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The opals shined in the firelight, making the rest of the room appear even dirtier than usual. Tom had spent the last hour carefully polishing the stones as the last trances of sunlight left the shop, though he didn't know why. They weren't trying to sell the thing on the basis of beauty. He could almost _feel_ the souls that had been lost to this necklace. He knew that he could feel the curse's powerful magic beating in his hands like a heartbeat. When he returned it to the shelf, he made a mental note to study it further later.

A creak echoed through the shop as the front door was pushed open, alerting Tom of his bosses' return. He took one deep breath and forced a smile before turning to face them.

"Are you _finally_ finished with that necklace?" Borgin demanded the instant he caught sight of Tom.

Tom's fake smile vanished. A genuine smirk replaced it. "You didn't make the sell, then?" He made no attempt to hide the arrogance in his voice.

Borgin glanced furiously around the shop. "You didn't dust the front desk."

"You didn't tell me to," Tom said, more for his own benefit than because he thought Borgin would accept the excuse. Tom didn't think that _anyone_ had dusted that counter since it was put in the shop. No less, he moved to the counter and searched for anything that wasn't itself too dusty to be used as a rag. He watched out of the corner of his eye as his employers slipped off their traveling cloaks and moved toward their office in the back room. He stopped them an instant before they were out of the main room. "You should have brought me," he told them, knowing that it would be better received than 'You should have _sent_ me,' which was what he meant. "Mr. Oddpick loves me. _I_probably could have made the sale and walked away with twenty galleons more than you were planning to."

Burke snorted. "Oddpick loves _seeing_ you, I'll grant that much."

"But then," Borgin chimed, "Everyone does. That's why we make a point of not letting them do so very often."

"As for the sale," Burke said hurriedly, before Tom could respond to Borgin, "I would love nothing more than to see you prove that tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's no good," Tom confessed, abandoning his search for a rag and tapping his wand on the counter. The dust vanished, but the counter still seemed to have an ancient and filthy look about it, as though the dust had been there for so long that the counter had internalized its presence. "He won't even want to discuss it with me the morning after he turned you two down."

"What happened to him loving you?" Burke wondered.

Tom shrugged. "He'd invite me in. He'd just keep leading the conversation away from business."

"So don't let _him_ lead the conversation."

Tom rested his head in his hands. "It doesn't work that way. Give him a month to cool off, then send me. I can probably pull it off then."

"Probably?" both of the other men interjected.

Tom rolled his eyes, but internally reprimanded himself for the slip. "I _can_ make the sell in a month."

Burke nodded skeptically. "In the meantime, you can work the night-shift _tonight_."

It took all of Tom's restraint not to groan. While fantastic and highly illegal deals were not unheard of on the Borgin and Burke's night-shift, the overwhelming majority of the shop's nighttime customer-base were middle-aged men from respectable (and they never failed to prattle on for a quarter of an hour about how very respectable they were) families with no connection to the Dark Arts, who were only in the shop, or even in Knockturn Alley, because after their tenth fire-whiskeys they'd got brave and decided to see what those _freaks_ in The Other Alley were up to. If Tom could get those men back out the door (usually only after they'd made several circles around the shop gawking at everything and asking the most juvenile Dark Arts questions) without them breaking anything, kissing him (which had happened four times. All four men had spent several months in St. Mungo's. The latest one would never make a complete recovery.), or demanding to see his bosses because they perceived some insult in his refusal to let them to do either of the former, Tom considered it a successful transaction.

Tom cringed as he heard their office door slam. There would be no arguing with them tonight. He glanced once at the door to make sure no one was coming, then crouched down to search the shelves built into the counter for anything that might amuse him until his employers left. Once they were gone, he'd be free to study the Dark objects and magic around the shop again. Since his arrival on Knockturn Alley, he had learned a great deal by skimming the dusty tomes kept in the far corner of the shop, or trying to understand how various objects worked. Borgin and Burke themselves, however, had strictly forbade Tom from touching anything that he wasn't either cleaning or showing to a customer. What the bosses didn't know couldn't hurt Tom...

There was nothing of interest behind the counter. Tom wasn't surprised. There very seldom was anything he considered worth his time down there. On the best of days, something had been broken and he'd be able to examine it under the guise of trying to fix it. Today was not the best of days.

He threw one last distraught look at the office door before pulling out a small pile of old receipts. He'd been doodling on the backs of them in his spare time. It was nothing fantastic; Snakes, skulls, wands, sevens, maybe a phrase in Latin if he'd been feeling particularly showy. He was trying to put together a simple but powerful design... He wasn't quite sure why, yet... He knew that it was really just needless pageantry, but something inside of him kept saying that he really needed more needless pageantry. Grindelwald had been big on needless pageantry, and though Tom did not aspire to be Grindelwald—He didn't aspire to be _anyone_ but an all-powerful version of himself—he understood that there had been many things that Grindelwald had done very well, and that there was as much to be learned from those successes as there was from Gindelwald's failures.

So he set to sketching. For fifteen minutes he was left uninterrupted to painstakingly attempt to draw a snake snake wrapping itself around the head of a skull and wonder half-seriously if it would be a serious breach of some unspoken Dark Lord etiquette rule to have Avery draw the damn thing instead. Tom had never been much of one for art. It wasn't his fault. He'd never been given a real chance to try at art. They'd made some half-hearted attempts to teach them some basic drawing skills at the orphanage, but they hadn't exactly been Michael Angelos themselves, and there had always been... distractions; children who wouldn't shut up, children who wouldn't stop fighting, children who needed extra help, children who just wanted the extra attention, children who were hungry, and _always_ children who were crying...

It occurred to him suddenly that he'd spent the last five minutes staring blankly at the wall. He shook himself out of it and returned to the sketch. He'd never have to go back there again, anyway...

The main door was pushed open. It didn't need a bell. The ancient hinges shouted it to everyone within a thousand miles whenever someone stepped over the threshold. Tom quickly slid his doodles back to the shelf below him, where they wouldn't be noticed, and braced himself for the smell of firewhiskey and a long talk about whatever trivial incident made this one's grandfather such an honorable man...

He didn't hold in the sigh of relief when he realized it was Arouet Lestrange standing in the entrance to the shop, fidgeting and not moving more than a foot away from the door. Lestrange looked ill-at-ease, especially for a man that Tom knew was quite comfortable in Knockturn Alley, but Tom didn't care. If he'd arrived in tears, Tom would still have preferred him to a drunken blood-traitor.

Lestrange looked up and forced a small smirk. "Why the sigh? Sorry to see me?"

"Quite the opposite, actually," Tom admitted. He laced his fingers, rested his chin on them, and watched without concern as Lestrange squirmed. "Have you been thinking about my request?"

Lestrange got deathly pale. So that was the problem, then. Tom was just beginning to contemplate how to punish him for refusing when Arouet let out a nervous laugh and nodded. "The Thatcher... _ordeal_? Yes." He gave another small laugh. "Yes, I have been. I asked around a bit, and...er... I know for a fact that they'll all be out of town this weekend. I'll take care of it then."

"Good." Tom didn't like those laughs. He resolved to go with Lestrange on the mission after all. It was obvious that it was going to take some patience to train him and in the meantime Tom didn't want him getting thrown in Azkaban.

It was only theft. Of course, Arouet was precisely the sort of boy to be more disgusted by theft than by murder. People of all social classes committed murder, but _theft_ was for peasants. That was _why_ Tom had chosen him for the job. Tom adored it when they humiliated themselves for him.

"You're allowed to get closer, you know."

Lestrange flinched. "Sorry." He was across the counter from Tom in seconds.

Tom watched Lestrange, with what could only be called intellectual curiosity, as he buried his head in his hands, took a deep breath, and then looked up at Tom. "Speaking of requests... May I make one?"

Tom rolled his eyes. Was that why Lestrange was nervous? Tom contemplated refusing, just to reassert his dominance, but ultimately he decided that it might be important or beneficial to _know_, if not grant, his young followers' wishes. "You can _request_ anything you like," he said carefully, looking at his friend sternly.

Arouet sighed. "Thank you..."

Tom's expression didn't change.

"I... er... Well..." Lestrange seemed to realize what he was doing then, and he fell silent. Tom waited, knowing that Lestrange would ask as soon as he figured out how to phrase the question. He wasn't kept waiting long. "My parents are having a gathering—more than a get-together, but less than a party. About three-dozen people—in about an hour to celebrate the solstice. They told me weeks ago that they didn't want me bringing any guests, but today at breakfast they said I should see if you're available..."

Tom blinked. "Me? Why?"

Arouet's normally pale skin turned scarlet. "Well, I may have... mentioned... you at breakfast..."

Tom glared.

"I _did_ mention you _again_ at breakfast," Arouet confessed immediately. When Tom's glare softened, Arouet went on. His voice was by now barely above a whisper, and his eyes seemed to have glued themselves to the counter-top. "My father says that my..." his lip quivered a bit, "_obsession_ with you isn't healthy for a boy of my age and social status. He ordered me to forget about you." He glanced quickly up at Tom to see the reaction.

Tom's expression was one of piqued curiosity. Nothing more. Mr. Lestrange didn't like him? Well, there were ways of taking care of that. Arouet was eighteen. His father had outlived his usefulness over a year ago. Tom would even be quick about it, as a favor to his friend. One spell. That was all. Like pulling off a band-aid... As for Arouet having an _obsession_ with him, that was certainly something to play with...

Arouet cleared his throat. "...We had a row. I kept telling him that if he'd just _meet_ you, he'd change his mind. He finally told me that if I was so certain of that, I should invite you over tonight..." He looked pleadingly up at Tom.

Tom considered the situation. On one hand, something inside of him was insisting that it was a horrible idea to go. He didn't want to establish a pattern of giving his followers whatever their wanted, and he could think of a million things he'd rather do tonight than suck up to more old purebloods. On the other hand, staying in this shop all night was not one of those things, and things would be much easier if he had the elder Lestrange's approval. He decided to compromise by granting the wish, but making Arouet work at it. "Your father _has_ met me, actually. He came into the shop last week and we had a rather lengthy discussion about the mudblood riots in Melbourne. I'm certain he didn't know who I was, though. It wouldn't hurt to introduce myself formally. I'm supposed to be here all night, though. You'll have to talk my employers into it."

Arouet let out a long sigh not very different from the one Tom had released when he'd first entered. "Where are they, then?"

Tom held up a single finger, walked over to the office they shared, and wrapped sharply on the door.

A conversation that he couldn't quite make out ceased instantly, and Tom listened to the footsteps as one of the men got up and answered the door. "What do you want?" Borgin snapped, obviously irritated by the interruption.

"A customer wants to speak with you," he explained, nodding into the shop at Arouet.

Borgin looked him over slowly, then smiled. "Lestrange's boy. Of course." He stepped around Tom and turned to Arouet. It wouldn't have surprised Tom in the slightest to see Borgin bow. "We always have time for such valued customers..."

Arouet barely seemed to register the words. "May I have a word with you in the back room?"

Borgin's smile fell. He shot Tom a glare. "I'm sorry, but no," he said, patiently but no less sternly. "The back room is for employees only."

Arouet's eyes flashed in a way that Tom knew all too well. That look was almost always followed by the _'Do You Know Who I AM?'_ speech, and then whichever indignant Slytherin it was that day would storm away muttering vague threats until he was called back—and he virtually always was—and given whatever he wanted.

Borgin seemed to know this look too, because he quickly intervened. "You can, however, talk to me out where while _Tom_ waits in the back room."

Tom's jaw dropped. Neither of the other men seemed to notice, and Tom was glad of that, but he resolved to teach Arouet one _Hell_ of a lesson as soon as they could get away from the celebration...

Arouet considered this for a moment, then nodded.

Borgin waved Tom into the other room without a word, and Tom nearly hexed the both of them on the spot. The sheer nerve of them! Sending him out of the room and talking about him like he was a child...

"What did you do this time, Tom?" Burke asked with a smirk.

"I haven't done a thing!" He snapped.

"With an attitude like that, you didn't have to."

Tom didn't respond. Burke returned to whatever he was writing. The room fell silent, and Tom strained to hear the conversation on the other side of the door, but he couldn't make out a word of it. He leaned against the wall and sulked. Five minutes passed.

The door was pushed open, and Borgin walked in with a grin on his face. "Off you go, then," he told Tom. "I've got this shift."

Tom made a point of not thanking him before he left the shop with Arouet at his heals.

"Out with it," he demanded as soon as he heard the door slam behind Arouet. "What did you do?"

Arouet sighed as he fell into step behind Tom. "Promise you won't be angry with me?"

"I already am angry with you!" Tom hissed, turning to glare at the boy. "And if you have to ask that, I'm probably about to get a lot angrier."

Arouet flinched.

"Tell me," Tom ordered. His voice promised severe consequences if the order wasn't obeyed.

"I just gave him forty galleons to—" He stopped in mid-sentence. His breath hitched, and Tom watched with no small amount of satisfaction as his dark eyes grew wide. He doubled-over slightly, and his deep brown hair fell into his eyes as he chocked out a sob.

Tom hadn't cast a single spell or raised so much as a finger, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was hurting Lestrange. He smirked. He hadn't done that since he was twelve. For the first time years, he thought back to his time at the orphanage with nostalgia.

Then he stopped. He didn't let his anger go—He _couldn't_ let his anger go—but he'd vented enough of it to move on.

Arouet had collapsed to his knees right there in the snow. He sucked in quick, staggered breaths, and barely seemed to be holding in the tears.

"Are you alright?" Tom asked. His voice was calm now, but it was far from sympathetic or concerned. He glanced up and down the alley once, and was relieved to find that not a single one of the five people milling about seemed to have noticed them.

Arouet's breaths began to deepen. After a second, he nodded. "I think so. How did you—"

"Shhhh..." Tom said gently. "Don't worry about that." His voice got slightly harder when he went on. "Listen to me, Arouet." He paused until their eyes met. "I am not a slave. You can't skip in there and _buy_ me whenever you feel like it. You are not to send me out of the room when you are talking about me, and you are not to forget for even a moment that _you_ answer to _me_. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Tom." It might have been Tom's imagination, but Arouet sounded like he had to _work_ to keep from calling Tom 'master.'

Tom smirked. His voice became casual again. "Good. Now stand up. We'll finish dealing with this after I speak with your parents."

Arouet rose slowly. "You should have brought a traveling robe," he said quietly. "You must be cold."

"Not really," Tom lied. "Anyway, it's not a long walk until we can disapparate." Anti-apparation charms had been placed all around Knockturn Alley in the early nineteenth century, to prevent large-scale arrests, break-ins, riots, and all of the other unpleasantness that had begun around Knockturn Alley when the government had shifted to its present liberal state. Diagon Alley, however, was still a perfectly safe place to disapparate from. Within minutes, Tom was brushing snow off of his robes in the Lestrange's entry room.

Tom was beyond being intimidated by large, splendidly decorated mansions. As he entered Lestrange's home, he was very grateful of that fact. The architecture on the outside had Tom guessing that the place was at least a thousand years old, but everything in slight on the inside seemed to have been updated at some point in Tom's life. The furniture was of the latest style, the paint was immaculate and not the least bit faded, by the end of the evening Tom was convinced that there wasn't so much as a creaking floorboard anywhere to be found, and even the house elf couldn't have been more than a decade old. With the exception of a few statues, swords, and other trinkets there were only there to show the world how important the family was, the oldest thing that Tom saw throughout the entire evening was the wine.

For several hours Tom found himself secluded on a love-seat with Arouet, discussing everything from the current state of affairs at Hogwarts to, when the wine had loosened their lips and they were confident that no one was listening, their plans for the upcoming weekend. Arouet's father was busy with other guests. More important guests, in his mind. Tom caught Mr. Lestrange watching them out of the corner of his eye several times, but he didn't move to speak with Tom, and though Tom knew that he would be chided by Mr. Lestrange later for not coming to speak with him sooner, Tom knew just as surely that if he went now he would be reprimanded for taking attention away from guests of a considerably higher social status so early in the evening. It was nearly ten when Tom deemed it an appropriate time to speak with his host.

Mr. Lestrange was just as Tom remembered him. He was a thin man of around fifty years old, with dark brown hair and a short beard that Tom unreservedly believed was patently styled every morning by one of the most expensive barbers in London, and cold green eyes set deep into skin that a lifetime in an office had left remarkably pale. His robes appeared new, and Tom doubted that there was so much as a speck of dirt beneath his fingernails. He must have been more than six feet tall, and he had no trouble with using the way he towered over everyone in the room as a way to intimidate people. He smirked when he saw Tom approaching.

"So, _you're_ the only thing my son's talked about for seven years."

Tom responded with a smirk of his own. "I'm sure that's quite an exaggeration. I'm not nearly that interesting." He held out a hand, "My name is Tom Riddle."

Lestrange hesitated a moment, then accepted Tom's offered hand. "I know who you are. I've seen you in Borgin and Burke's a million times. Why, the last time must have been..."

"It was last Tuesday, sir." Tom said surely. He smiled. "But I don't believe I've ever formally introduced myself to you."

Lestrange was quiet for a moment. "No, you haven't. Riddle, was it? I don't believe I've heard of your parents..."

"I don't believe you have, either," Tom confessed. "They really are not people of any consequence." He paused for a beat, then corrected himself, "They _were_ not people of any consequence."

"Deceased?" Lestrange asked.

Tom nodded. "Both of them."

"I'm so sorry."

Tom held up a hand. "Don't be. My father passed years ago. I don't even remember my mother."

"The greater the tragedy, then. You're so young. You have no one? You're alone?" The questions were asked without the slightest trace of concern.

"Quite, but I prefer it that way, sir." After a pause, he threw on, "My mother had an older brother who was still alive, last I'd heard, but I was never exactly well connected to that side of the family."

He looked Tom over quickly. "You mustn't have inherited much."

Tom flinched. A fast sip of his wine, however, and he managed to adopt the attitude of one who completely deserved that. "Forgive me if this is too blunt, sir, but if I had inherited any considerable sum of money, I wouldn't be working on Knockturn Alley."

"No," Lestrange muttered, shaking his head as though that should have been obvious. "I should think not..." He sighed. "But let's speak of happier things. You were correct about Melbourne, as I assume you've heard. The riots were put down this morning. The loudest of the trouble-makers have been detained and the ordinances will remain in place."

"Were they?" Tom grinned. "I hadn't heard, actually. I've been stuck in the shop all day... Well, that certainly is good news. Our Aurors would do well to pay more attention to their brothers in Australia, don't you think? I've long said that we're too soft over here on whiny mudbloods..."

"It all goes back to Grindelwald, really," Lestrange said with a sigh. "The whole of Europe has been so... _touchy_ since his fall. Just speaking the truth anymore will get you called the next Dark Lord."

Tom nodded sympathetically, and the conversation lagged for a moment. There was an awkwardness beneath their casual words. Lestrange was judging Tom, and he knew that Tom knew it. Things were going smoothly for now, but the situation was an extremely unstable one, and Tom knew well enough to quit while he was ahead. "It's such a shame... But I should let you go, shouldn't I? I'm sure you're busy and it's rude of me to keep you from everyone. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Lestrange told him. "It's nice to finally be able to put a face to the name. If you remain for a few more hours, perhaps we'll have a lengthier discussion after a few of the other guests have left." It was a statement, not a request. If Tom waited around submissively until well past any sane man's bedtime, he _might_ be permitted to entertain one of the most well-respected men in pure-blood society twice in one night. If _that_ conversation went well, then Tom _might_ be permitted to remain friends with a boy he'd known since he was eleven.

He should be so lucky.

He found Arouet right where he'd him left on the love-seat, muttering to himself in French about, as far as Tom could tell, an uncle's cat, with his brown eyes glazed over and the smell of wine thick on his breath.

"You're drunk," Tom told him.

Arouet shook his head. "I'm fine. I won't have any more." He waved his hand to his wine glass. He must have had several glasses, because it was nearly full. "You finish it."

Tom shrugged and took it. He poured what little was left in his own glass into it and began drinking. After an hour of a very dull discussion on who was likely to the take the Quidditch World Cup that year, the wine was gone, none of the guests showed any sign of wanting to leave, and the idea of spending three more hours in that room was getting unbearable. He could stay in the manor if he had to, but he was getting quite sick of the two rooms that the party seemed to be taking place in.

"Arouet, let's go for a walk." He could, at the very least, see explore the place a bit. If Arouet's father _didn't_ warm up to him, it would be nice to have a feel for the layout of the place when he went to take care of things. He hadn't completely closed himself off to the possibility of making Arouet take care of it, but he liked to keep his options open.

Arouet blinked at him. "You mean... outside?"

Tom nodded.

The other boy looked at him dully for a moment. "Shit, it's cold out there, Tom." His eyes fell to the floor. "I'd rather not..."

Tom nearly hexed him on the spot. Arouet _expected_ Tom to do just that, judging by the frightened look in his eyes... Tom barely kept his emotions in check. "Arouet, we've already discussed—"

"I know." That was it. Arouet was actually giving him _permission_...

"Very well then." He supposed that if he was going to hurt Arouet, he might as well be otherwise comfortable. "Why don't you show me your room?"

Arouet nodded and stood. Somewhere between the fifth hallway and the third staircase, it occurred to Tom that, while neither of them was exactly drunk, neither of them was sober. He could still smell the alcohol on Arouet, and his own head was buzzing. He would have to be very careful not to hurt the other boy too badly. The night was still very young, and Tom knew that it would present him with a million chances to mess up before he was allowed to crawl into bed. In the morning—the very early morning. He was due at work at seven—there would be a headache and an upset stomach to deal with until he could slip away for long enough to buy a hangover cure, and even then he'd probably be exhausted. For now though, he had to stick this out. Things with Arouet needed to be settled. If he could get all of the boys to stay in line and their fathers to stay out of things, everything would go well. All he needed was to exercise a few more hours of control...

Exercising control would have been far easier, of course, if Tom had had the foggiest idea of what constituted 'control' in this situation. He had hurt his friends before for not doing what he wanted, or not doing it well. He had never _punished a follower_ for refusing to follow and order, though, and the latter was what he wanted to do now. He was quite certain that they were not the same thing. He couldn't just cast a stinging hex and let Arouet walk away rubbing his arm. Things had changed.

Arouet's bedroom was larger than Tom's entire apartment. It contained a king-sized bed, two sofas, three desks, ten bookshelves (only five of which actually contained books. The other five held various toys and trinkets.), candlesticks at least every ten feet, and several well-placed statues, it still almost looked empty. It was decorated in dark green and black, which made it look slightly smaller than it probably was, but to Tom it seemed no less massive.

Arouet cast the muffliato charm himself as soon as he closed the door behind Tom. Tom gave him a small smile to let him know that was the right thing to do, then added an additional charm to make anyone who wondered too close to the room forget what they'd come for and turn back.

Then, he turned to face Arouet. "You understand why I'm going to do this, don't you?"

Arouet also seemed to realize that this situation was very different from the times Tom had hurt him at school, or even the few seconds earlier today when Tom had caused him pain. He nodded slowly, and Tom was almost certain he was trembling.

"Kneel down over there," Tom commanded, nodding to an area between two sculptures of serpents.

"Yes, master."

A jolt of energy shot through Tom's entire body at the words. There wasn't a trace of sarcasm or grudge anywhere in them. Arouet _meant_ it. As he watched Arouet take his place on the floor, Tom knew that he was doing the right thing. Tom would curse every one of them to within an inch of their lives if it would always earn that sort of respect.

Now, what to do with him...

A spell danced across Tom's mind. He'd never used it before, but he knew that there was no beating it when one wanted to hurt someone. He'd read of it only twice—once in his N.E.W.T. History of Magic book, and the second time in a book that he'd started flicking through during a dull afternoon at the shop. Both books had raved about its power, though both books had also attached long disclaimers about the extreme illegality of it and the latter book had even gone on to describe the extreme _difficulty_ of casting it.

He could just choose something else. The spell he used had to _hurt_, but there was nothing necessarily wrong with it being _mundane_. It might even be all the more satisfying if Tom used a curse that he knew Arouet _could_ counter, just to make sure that Arouet _wouldn't_ counter it. It didn't have to be _that_ curse. It didn't have to be one of_those_ curses.

But he had cast one of _those_ curses before, hadn't he? Three times, he had cast one of _those_ curses. He had cast _the_ curse, in fact. Three times, he had cast _the_ worst of_those_ curses, and three times it had hit a human being. _This_ curse, in comparison, was not so bad.

Tom raised his wand. "I've been so disappointed in your behavior today," he sighed, almost sweetly.

Arouet opened his mouth to respond, but Tom raised his left hand and touched a finger to his own lips. Arouet got the message. His jaw closed, and his eyes lowered submissively.

"Crucio!"

Tom had spent eleven years and six summers surrounded by squabbling, miserable children but, somehow, he had never heard a boy scream so loudly. Arouet hid his face in his arms and Tom watched as his body convulsed. His screams seemed to echo. Tom worried that the party guests downstairs would somehow manage to hear them.

Just as he noticed himself becoming irritated with Arouet for screaming, Arouet began to scream even louder, as though the curse had intensified. Experimentally, Tom took three deep breaths, calming himself. Arouet's screams dulled with every breath, though he continued shaking violently.

After one minute that felt like a year, Tom stopped. He stopped not by letting the curse wear off, though, as Borgin and Burke's book had claimed it would, but simply be deciding that he didn't want to do it anymore. As soon as he realized that he should stop, he did. Why didn't it work the way the book claimed it would? That was something to look into...

Tom studied Arouet. He was in a heap on the floor, completely still save the slight trembling of virtually every muscle in his body. His screams had stopped, but Tom thought that he could still make out a soft keening noise every few seconds. There was, at least, no question about whether or not he was still alive. Every desperate gasp seemed to fill the room.

When Tom stepped toward his follower, he realized that he was shaking too, though it was for an entirely different reason. He considered asking Arouet if he was alright, but that question seemed far too sentimental for this situation. He would have gone with 'How are you?' in his most disinterested voice, but the answer seemed too obvious in this situation. In one very tense minute, he must have rejected a dozen questions. He finally settled on "...Can you stand?"

Arouet looked unsure at first, but after a minute of carefully testing his arms and knees with weight, he was confident enough at least to try. He rose slowly, steadying himself with the statue to his left. His legs shook slightly, but when he let go of the stone, he was able to support his own weight.

Tom nodded, hiding his relief. "...And are you.... dizzy, or anything?"

Arouet nodded slowly. "A little."

"Sit down," Tom instructed, nodding to the bed.

"Thank you," Arouet breathed as he obeyed.

Tom decided that he should do something to make sure Arouet was alright mentally as well as physically. "What's your name?" Tom asked.

"Arouet Lestrange." Arouet buried his head in his hands, but his answer was sure.

"What's my name?"

"Tom Riddle."

"Where are we?"

"My bedroom."

"What was our house at school?"

"Slytherin."

"Who was our Head?"

"Slughorn."

"What did he teach?"

"Potions."

"What was the last essay you wrote for him?"

Arouet looked up. "Tom, I stopped taking potions after our fifth year. I don't remember."

Tom smirked. "It was that paper on how we felt about our O.W.L." He sat down on the bed next to Arouet, looked him over carefully, and decided to just ask out-right. "You're alright, aren't you?"

Arouet nodded. There was a second of uncomfortable silence, then; "You've never done that before, have you?"

"No," Tom admitted curtly. "What of it?"

"Nothing," Arouet assured him. After a second, he smirked, then slipped off the bed and onto his knees on the floor. "I'm always happy to serve as _your_ lab-rat, master."

Tom got chills. "If only," he said, forcing his voice to be casual, "you were always happy to serve me in general."

Tom saw the hurt in Arouet's eyes, but Arouet's grin only broadened. "Command me, master. I've learned my lesson."

Tom didn't quite believe him. "Kiss my feet," he ordered firmly.

Arouet hesitated for a small moment, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to the dirty leather on the top of Tom's left shoe. He looked up, and Tom had to quickly wipe off whatever stupid look of surprise he'd had on his face.

Arouet smiled almost perversely before returning his mouth to Tom's shoe. He grabbed Tom's heel and laid three more soft kisses on Tom's foot.

Every nerve in Tom's body was on alert. When Tom realized that he was about to moan, he got a grip on him self and brought his foot up across Arouet's mouth. "That's enough." He said firmly.

Arouet again masked his pain and looked up at Tom patiently.

"Get up here," Tom instructed, again aware of the buzzing in his head and the smell of alcohol that lingered around... around both of them, now that he thought about it. Arouet's obedience was undeniably arousing, but he had to show some restraint. Tom waited until Arouet was seated comfortably, then began to study the other boy again. The curse didn't seem to have left any physical marks, but Tom's foot certainly had. A dark bruise was forming on Arouet's cheek. Tom ran his thumb over it self-consciously, but stopped himself from apologizing.

Arouet just blinked at him.

"Have you really learned your lesson?" Tom wondered aloud.

"Yes," Arouet assured him, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Then will you be more obedient in the future?"

"Yes."

"You'll do as I tell you? You'll do _everything_ that I tell you?"

"Yes."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"This weekend?"

"Yes."

It wasn't until Tom heard his own breath that he realized he was shaking. "Forever?"

"Yes." Every answer came quickly and without the smallest hint of uncertainty.

Tom thought back to just a few hours ago, when Arouet had all but confessed to being _obsessed_ with him. Now seemed like as good a time as any to test that. "And do you love me?"

A second of hesitation passed, then; "Yes."

Tom smirked. "I don't know which is worse..." he said slowly, standing and taking three steps away from the bed. "That you're lying to me, or that you're lying to me _so_**_badly_**." He turned around and sneered.

"But I'm not—"

"You don't really expect me to buy it, do you?"

Arouet looked wounded. His mouth was half-open, but he said nothing.

"Were you worried I'd curse you again?" Tom wondered aloud.

"No! I—"

"Why shouldn't I just walk away right now?"

"Tom!" Arouet struggled to find the right words for a moment, then surrendered, jumped to his feet, grabbed Tom, and pressed their lips together.

That was _not_ supposed to happen. All four of the men who'd kissed Tom in the shop flashed through his mind, but he didn't move. He didn't shove Arouet away. He certainly didn't start hexing him. He held completely still.

After three seconds, Arouet pulled away and took a quick step back. Tom hadn't thought it was possible for a Lestrange to look so afraid.

"That," Tom said carefully, "was extremely inappropriate."

"I meant it." The sentence was so quiet that Tom could barely hear it.

Tom smirked. "Did you?" He took three steps toward the Arouet.

Arouet, as though moved by some invisible force, took a step backward in almost perfect sync with Tom's until his legs hit the bed, and he sat tensely on the edge.

Tom stood over him. Without saying a word, he unclasped Arouet's robes and pulled them off. Then, Tom brought his hands to Arouet's chest, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Arouet was silent until the fourth button. "Tom, what are you—"

Tom slapped him, then returned to the shirt without a word. When the last button was undone, he slipped the shirt over Arouet's shoulders and tossed it to the floor. "I'm bored," Tom told him. "If you love me—if you want me to stay here another minute—you'll hold very still, and you'll refrain from screaming. Understood?"

Arouet muttered a single French word under his breath. Tom had no difficulty guessing what it was.

"Is that a 'no'?"

There was a beat of silence, and then; "That's a 'yes.' I understand. Do your worst."

"I will." Tom touched the tip of his wand to Arouet's chest. "_Sectum_," he said.

Arouet sucked in the air to scream, but appeared to catch himself at the last second. Red began to outline Tom's wand.

Tom flashed an encouraging smile, then began to move his wand slowly over Arouet's flesh. He drew the wand down originally, but changed his mind and angled right, circling Arouet's breast, reveling in watching Arouet twitch and struggle to remain still. When Tom drew his wand to the left, he went dangerously close to Arouet's nipple, just to see the pleading look Arouet shot him. At great length, he drew the wand down, across Arouet's stomach, and circled his belly-button several times. This must have been the most painful part, because the intensity of Arouet's gasps tripled. When Tom realized that Arouet's entire body was trembling beneath him, he withdrew his wand.

"Not bad..." Tom told him. He looked at his wand and frowned at the blood-soaked tip. "But look what a mess you've made!" He held his wand to Arouet's nose. "Lick it clean."

Arouet's eyes got wide. "But it's **blood**—"

"It's **your** blood. It won't do any harm."

It didn't do much good for the wand, of course. Tom would have to clean that himself later. There was just something _erotic_ about watching Arouet lean forward and, after a few careful licks, take the tip of Tom's wand into his mouth. Arouet seemed to realize that there was something erotic in it as well, because Tom had never seen so much guilt on a Slytherin's face. Arouet was being used as cheap entertainment, and he knew it, and somewhere within him there was a proud Lestrange heir demanding that he_stop it right this fucking _**_instant_**, but he wasn't going to.

When Tom pulled his wand away, he smiled.

Arouet looked away.

It occurred quite suddenly to Tom that he was no longer simply enjoying this. He was getting off on this. One careful glance at Arouet's lower regions revealed that they both were, though neither would ever admit it. "Don't be upset," Tom cooed, pushing the other boy down and climbing onto the bed. "This is the most interesting you've been in ages." Lazily, Tom dug one of his fingernails in where his cutting with the wand had ended.

Arouet whimpered. "What will I tell my father when he asks how this—" He sucked in a large gasp as Tom began to move his nail lazily through the gash, deepening the already unpleasant cuts. "—How this happened?"

"Don't worry about it," Tom instructed, quite unnecessarily. Arouet's squirms indicated that he wasn't particularly worried about _anything_ that wasn't Tom's hand. In a rare show of mercy, Tom stilled then lifted his hand before it made it back to the boy's chest. "I can heal them." He held his hand to Arouet's face.

After a moment's hesitation, Arouet licked the blood from his finger as well. "Good," he sighed, not sitting up.

"Of course, you'll have to earn it."

The look of fear Tom won with that was _gorgeous_.

Tom pulled Arouet up, first into a sitting position and then onto his knees. Tom sat on his own knees, pulled Arouet in, and kissed him almost tenderly. Arouet looked surprised, and Tom could only smirk.

Not all of Tom's experiences with another's lips had been entirely unwilling. He had been considered quite the charmer in school, and it would have looked strange for him not to return any of the affection that his female peers showed him. By the time he was a third-year, he'd realized what a status symbol girls could be in Slytherin house. He made a point of having every last one of the purest and prettiest girls on his arm at one time or another. The social benefits of this were immense, but it did not come without a price. Things were expected of a boy when he was courting a girl. Though Tom had never been anything but a gentlemen in his relationships with members of the softer sex (and that was not entirely for the sake of being a gentlemen), Tom had kissed more lips in the last seven years than he'd have cared to in his life.

The boys were better. The boys were always better, though _that_ had always been more of dirty, shameful little secret.

Tom deepened the kiss when he went in the second time, slipping his own knee in between Arouet's and bringing their bodies so close that there could be no doubt in Arouet's mind as to what Tom wanted him to do. As they kissed, Tom's hands moved back to the gashes on Arouet's chest. He didn't deepen them further or continue on with the cuts, but he simply played with them, placing his hands on various areas and seeing what kind of gasps and jumps he could get out of his plaything. When Arouet finally decided he couldn't take it anymore and fell backwards, Tom merely smiled and unzipped Arouet's trousers, not at all worried about getting blood on material that must have cost fifty-galleons. That too could be cleaned later...

Arouet moved back to his knees and began undoing Tom's trousers without even bothering to remove Tom's shirt first. They were so close that when Tom return his hand to Arouet's chest to begin tracing the design up there, Tom's shirt began to brush against the lower cuts, leaving the entire trail lightly stinging as Arouet shoved Tom's pants down to his knees.

Tom shoved Arouet's pants down as well and, without a second of warning, brought his hand up to Arouet's penis.

Arouet's loudest gasp of the night seemed to echo through the room.

Tom began to slowly stroke Arouet, reviling in the way every little reaction he obtained. Only the smallest of trimmers ran through Arouet's body at first, but the more attention Tom paid to him, the more he trembled. Gasps turned to moans which turned to a stream of French pleas that Tom understood without translating.

Then, very deliberately, Tom pulled his hand away.

Arouet moaned in frustration. "_Merlin_! Please don't stop!"

"Earn it," Tom told him sternly.

Arouet took a deep breath and nodded. He pulled Tom in and renewed their kissing, doubtlessly so that Tom couldn't watch him work. Tom decided to allow that. Arouet slipped his hands in between them and began giving Tom the attention his body had been desperately craving for a while now, and even Tom couldn't hold in his first moan. Arouet must have taken it as encouragement, because his movements from then on seemed more sure.

He stroked Tom slowly at first. It was certainly arousing, but Tom didn't think he would ever finish at that rate.

"Faster," Tom hissed, surprised by how staggered his breathing was.

Arouet complied. Tom came in minutes and finished Arouet off, satisfied that Arouet had done his job.

Tom picked his wand up from the blanket beside him, waved it once, and cleaned away all of the bodily fluids on either of them or their clothes. Both boys pulled their pants and trousers up, and Tom looked at Arouet's chest.

He couldn't resist running his finger over the gashes one last time before he healed them. Arouet endured the final rush of pain quietly, and thanked Tom perfused for the whole thing afterwards. Tom responded coldly.

Arouet pulled his shirt and robes back on. Tom straightened his own robes. Neither of them spoke of the incident again.

It was getting late. When Tom and Arouet returned down stairs, many of the guests were gone. Tom had a pleasant chat with Arouet's father and, with that matter settled, returned his apartment at an ungodly hour.


End file.
